Love is Definitely the Color Red
by The One With Doll Eyes
Summary: All Sherlock wants is to be his own man, but that's a lot harder when you're a fledgling vampire, even more so when a strange, yet endearing man has a crush on you, and your brother is literally the British government.
1. Chapter 1

Mycroft doesn't consider himself overprotective of his little brother. Perhaps, overly cautious, if even that. It didn't help that their parents were perfectly happy letting Sherlock, in Mycroft's opinion, run wild. The boy never slept, barely ate (and if he did, he was extremely picky), and was continuously stuffing things, such as dirt and flowers, in his mouth, an experiment he called it. Sunlight flooded the kitchen and dinning room. Mycroft sat at the table rereading one of his assigned books for his high level courses for class. He had already eaten. His mother hurried about the kitchen preparing food for his little brother. His father quietly read the paper, leaning back against the counter, as loud barking was heard from the backyard.

"Oh, dear," said his mother, worriedly, "Mike, could you be a lamb and check on the dog?"

Mycroft sighed internally as he obliged, closing his book and making his way to the back door. Upon opening it, Redbeard rushed at him, yipping and whining, tugging on his trouser leg. "Alright, alright, what is the matter?" The young man asked as he shut the door behind him, stepping into the early morning Saturday sun. The dog hurried him to the bush. The scent hit him rather hard, Mycroft admitted. Sherlock. The sleeping child was curled up underneath the branches of the bush, his dark hair peacocking against the lime green leaves.

Redbeard whimpered nearby, sitting beside the bush. "Good boy." Mycroft praised, patting the dog's head. The young man tugged his trousers up by the front of the thigh as he crouched so that the hems wouldn't be dirtied. Peering into the bush, he singsonged, "Sherlock."

The little boy sprung to life, sitting up, hair tangling itself in the twigs. As soon as the sunlight stung his face, he burrowed back into his hiding spot, yawning. His older brother swiftly shrugged off his cashmere jumper and wrapped it around the younger boy, creating makeshift shade. Upon closer inspection of his little brother, Mycroft notice that the child was in his long sleeve pajamas. Judging by the way he shivered and how damp he was (it rained last night), the boy must have been out here all night.

Wrapping his chubby arms around Mycroft's neck, the child nuzzled his head in the crook of his older brother's throat. Mycroft, in turn place, tilted his chin to rest on the boy's curls and placed his hand on Sherlock's head. Mycroft opened the door, letting himself, Sherlock, and Redbeard inside. The door clicked shut behind them. "Sherlock Holmes!" Their mother scolded, upon their entrance to the kitchen. "Have you been out there all night?"

"Yes, Mummy." Sherlock muttered from his place at Mycroft's hip. "You could have been burned to a crisp, my boy." Their father gently interjected, not nearly as harshly as their mother would have. "No, Daddy," the boy said wiggling to be put down. As soon as his feet touched the ground, he began peeling off his damp pj's, banishing them to the floor, leaving himself to stand in his pirate themed underwear. "I hid in a bush. I didn't get burned."

His parents sighed. His mother set a single plate at the table. "Alright, but next time you ask one of us, young man. Now, sit at the table. Your breakfast is ready." The little boy climbed into the chair upon seeing his favorite meal, sausage, toast, and eggs. He ate without coaxing. Mycroft collected the soiled clothing from the floor, laying them out on a chair. "Mummy, isn't it time he started eating with us?" The young man asked, his mother smiling at his question, knowing the concern laced words well.

"Oh, " She said, dismissively, waving her hand, "He's still a baby to our kind, my dear."

"A baby who sneaks out at all hours of the night." Mycroft said, dryly.

Sherlock, since he shoveled down his food, slipped out of his chair. Grabbing his plate and sliver ware, carefully brought it to his mother, who thanked him and began washing the dishware. "Daddy, I'm thirsty." The older man chuckled. Beckoning Sherlock forward, he heaved the child onto his hip and carried him back to his chair. Arranging the boy on his lap, the small back connecting with his large chest, his father offered his wrist. Sherlock, normally a child who refused to eat until his very last breath, latched onto the offered appendage, trying his best to make tiny incisions with his baby fangs. It would be years before his adult fangs came in. His father chuckled at the small prick. The boy eventually drew blood, if a bit sloppily.

The child gently sucked, swallowing with every mouthful. His father made a tsking noise as his son pulled away from his arm, watching the minuscule cuts close. "Such a messy boy, you are." His father tutted, wiping away excess blood dribbling down the child's face with his sleeve as the boy fussed, pulling away from the intrusive hand.

Mycroft remembered that day fondly. He missed the days when Sherlock was small enough to fit into the crook of his arm. During that time, Mycroft had already grown into adulthood, in mind and body. He took careful measures in reminding his little brother how large the age gap between them really was, well over hundreds of years.

Sherlock sat, grouchily, cross armed, legs spread, and slouching, in his older brother's living room. "Now, don't make that face, Sherlock." His brother scolded, placing a tray of tea on the coffee table in the middle of the large, expensively decorated room. "I'll be Mother." Mycroft said, sitting down across from his little brother, unbuttoning his cuff links to roll up his sleeves. Sherlock rolled his eyes, sliding onto his side, laying horizontally on the couch, as the older man poured their tea.

"Aren't you always?" Sherlock commented; he admitted his rebuttals were lacking today.

Mycroft didn't look up as he warned him. "Don't be testy, little brother." He returned the teapot to its original place on the tray. Adding two sugars and nudging a plate of biscuits towards his petulant brother, he spoke, "I know you're unhappy about living with me, but Father and Mummy can't look after you anymore. You know they love having you live with them, but they need some peace once in a while. Don't you agree?"

Sherlock mumbled, snatching a sweet from the plate. "I'm not a child."

"That wasn't the answer to the question I asked, brother mine."

Sherlock glared as he stuffed the biscuit in his mouth. The sound of the front door opening and closing was heard. Shoes clicked against the hard wood. Greg Lestrade entered the room, grinning like a mad man. "Looks like you got our boy to eat a bit, My."

Mycroft chuckled. "It seems that way. Although he is being slightly sulky."

"I do not sulk." Sherlock sounded offended.

"Pouting then." Greg commented, sitting next to Mycroft, placing a quick kiss on his lips.

"Hm," Mycroft hummed his agreement, smiling slightly at his husband, "Such a fledgling thing to do." Sherlock huffed, jumping to his feet to pace, running his hands through his hair.

Greg, leaning into his husband, rested his arm on the back of the couch behind Mycroft. "Look, Sherlock, this is for your own good. It's not supposed to be a punishment, but it can become one." The detective-inspector let the threat hang in the air. "I'm not a fledgling." Sherlock protested, ignoring Greg.

"I beg to differ," Said Mycroft, raising his eyebrows, "You still have your baby fangs, the sun still stings your skin, where if you were an adult, it wouldn't hurt unless in high temperatures, and you still smell like a fledgling. The only reason I am speaking to you as if you were an adult is that you are fighting your true mentality."

Showing his fangs, Sherlock snarled, hissing. "I'm not a baby." He shoved a lamp off a side table. Both Mycroft and Greg watched it fall, bored expressions on their faces. "Well, that little outburst isn't helping anything." Commented Greg, grabbing a biscuit and placing it in his mouth.

The youngest man in the room gave a muffled scream, stomping out of the room and up the stairs to his room. "Poor baby." Greg said, sympathetically. "Missed his nap, did he?"

"Hm, yes, he also refused to eat lunch."

"Plus, he's a drama queen."

Mycroft chuckled. "That, too. He'll calm down in a bit."

"So that gives us at least two hours." Greg said, wiggling his eyebrows.

Mycroft tilted his head, contemplating, eyes gleaming. "Yes, that gives you ample time to clean the mess he's made."


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock quietly crept down the stairs, careful not to make the wood creak and groan. He shuffled into the kitchen, watching Greg and his brother make dinner. "Greg?"

Greg turned, smile wide on his face. Mycroft glanced at his little brother amused. "There's our little boy!" Greg cheered, teasingly, planting a fatherly kiss on Sherlock's cheek.

"I'm sorry I broke the lamp, My." His brother nodded. "I accept your apology, Little one. I know you'll do better next time. Though, you won't be playing 'experiments' tomorrow as your punishment. Set the table, would you?"

"m'k, brother." Sherlock complied timidly. "My?"

"Yes, brother dear?" Mycroft asked, genuinely concerned as he loaded a pot full of broccoli.

"Can we still have spaghetti tomorrow, even though I was bad?"

"Of course, Sherlock, but you were not bad; you made a bad choice." Sherlock nodded his head quickly, his curls bouncing. "Greg," the detective asked, "Could we visit Mrs. Hudson soon? Purely for scientific reasons."

Lestrade laughed, deep and throaty, taking the fish out of the oven. "Yes, love, I'm sure she's dying to see you. Maybe, if you show us that you are mature enough, you could rent out her spare rooms. She said she'd love to have you."

Sherlock's head shot up, setting a plate down. "Really?" His eyes darted between the two of them. Mycroft sighed, wiping his hands on a dishrag, displeased look on his face. "As much as I hate to admit it, you are right: You are not a child, nor a baby, but you are a fledgling. You need to experience the world in your own terms. But if you even slightly think about doing something, anything, completely, and utterly stupid, I will personally make sure you do not leave this house until you're old and grey. Do I make myself clear, Sherlock Holmes?"

His little brother simply stared. The married couple waited a few moments then Sherlock burst to life, jumping once in the air, his legs tucked behind him, his fists flying toward the sky. "Yes, more than clear, Mycroft! When can I move in? Did Mrs. Hudson say when?"

"There's a catch though." Greg held up his hand. "You have dinner with the two of us every Sunday night."

Sherlock blinked. "That's it?"

"Yep." Greg confirmed, bringing the fish over to the table. "Now, sit down. We'll go see her tomorrow." He stole a glance at his husband, who still looked as if he had sucked on a lemon.


	3. Chapter 3

"This'll be good for him." Greg commented pulling back the sheets so he could slide into bed next to his husband. They both had a long day of helping Sherlock move into his new place. "And when have I said it wouldn't, Gregory?" Mycroft sighed, exasperated, relinquishing his book to the night stand. Settling in, Greg raised his eyebrows. "I saw that look on your face when I told him about the flat."

"I don't have the slightest idea of what you're implying."

"You remember when we were fledglings, yeah? Always sneaking out, going on hunts together, staying out until the sun was smoking our skin."

Mycroft pressed a kiss to his husband's head, humming fondly. "I remember. That's exactly the opposite of what I want him to do."

Greg sighed. "Just don't let him know you bugged his flat. I still haven't forgiven you for having your grunts follow me."

"That was after you were shot, dear. What did you expect me to do?"

"Yeah, yeah. You worry too much."

Mycroft pulled Greg towards himself. "You and I both know Sherlock can be dense at times."

"Just like his brother."

It was exciting to be on his own. Sherlock loved it. He loved doing what he wanted, when he wanted. At the moment, he was dissecting human eye balls with a steak knife. No one was there to tell him "Sherlock, use proper tools, and if you're going to do that, do so on a mat, not on my good dishes." or "Sherlock, do get some rest." or "I will not tell you again, Sherlock, you do not go outside without a long coat." (He loved wearing his coat, but sometimes he would simply forgo it just to irritate his brother) or "Sherlock Holmes, how the Hell did you steal a body from the morgue and why did you put it on the kitchen table!" (Lestrade was still rather scarred from the whole incident). He gently pressed the tip of the knife to the fragile epidermis of the eye. He felt it give under the pressure. Peeling back the covering, he peered into the inner workings.

He shot up straight, slamming the knife on the table, and dashing down the stairs, pulling on his coat. He smelled something. He pulled the door closed with a thump from the frame and a click from the knocker. Flicking his eyes back and forth, he sped down the street. He felt the street cameras swivel to watch him.

The scent permeated the air, stung at his nose, consuming his being, wrapping around his brain, like a large fluffy fresh out of the dryer towel. A black car rolled two car lengths behind him. Sherlock smiled, almost forgetting the reason for leaving his home, almost forgetting that alluring scent, almost, as he darted around the corner, just out of sight of the car.

The game was on.

The scent made him twist and turn through alley ways. He darted across streets, cars barely missing him and honking, loudly. The black car still trailed him, swerving this way and that, attempting to cut Sherlock off, but the detective didn't seem to notice. Sherlock jerked to a stop in the urine drenched, foul smelling, narrow alleyway. His fangs jabbed through his gums, blood coated, tender and sharp. They rested neatly behind his lips, just in front of is lower teeth.

The young vampire felt hot, boiling, overwhelmed, like he was boxed in as if he were a mouse in an elaborate maze. He thumped his back against the cool brick wall, smudged with graffiti. Pulling his knees to his chest, resting his head in his hands, he gripped his hair, pulling and tugging. He heard slamming, careful footsteps against the pavement, echoing in his eardrums. He couldn't bring himself to care. Too hot. Too hot. He wanted Mycroft. He wanted Lestrade. They would make it better.

"Hey, buddy, are you alright?" The lovely scent hit him full force, overpowering, fresh.

Hiding his face, Sherlock whimpered, immediately regretting the action and childish sound. "Oh," The voice with the scent responded with a smiling tone. "You're just a little guy, aren't you? You're kind of young to be out here all alone." The stranger pressed his hand to Sherlock's forehead.

"I'm not...I'm not little." Sight blurry, Sherlock mumbled, leaning into the touch, looking up to meet the crouching stranger's eyes. The man wore a plain, black suit and shiny dress shoes. In his haze, Sherlock couldn't quite make out the face. Tilting Sherlock's head up to examine his dilated eyes, the man chuckled. "Of course not. My apologies. Let's get you home. Where do you live?"

"I can get home by myself. " Sherlock growled. The stranger held up his hands. "Easy there, tiger. I didn't mean anything by it. I'm just a concerned bystander. Our kind has to look out for each other." Gently, as if not to irritate him, the stranger smoothed back the detective's hair, looking in the direction of one of the two entrances to the alley. "We'll be in touch, babe." The man disappeared in the opposite direction of where he entered as two men in black suits dashed down the alley.

"Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes!" They shouted, far too loud for Sherlock at the moment.

Sherlock lolled his head in their direction against the crumbling bricks. In his snarky toned voice, he snapped, horsley. "Do be quiet. It's Sunday. People are napping."


	4. Chapter 4

Greg laid the cold washcloth on Sherlock's head, thanking the body guards as they placed him on the bed. They hastily left, not wanting to be within a mile of the house when their boss came home. Looking as if he were a porcelain doll, Sherlock mumbled to Greg about eyeballs and a scent that was burned into his nose. Patting the younger man's cheek lovingly, Greg, chastising, hushed him, telling him to rest and not use his head for a while.

Luckily, Greg was already home when Sherlock was found. He didn't know what Mycroft would do if he came home to his little brother spread out on their bed, with no one watching over him. The detective Inspector noticed a little white piece of paper sticking out against Sherlock's sweaty palm. Gently tugging, bringing it to the end of his nose, he read a number. A phone number.

"Well, what do you know..." Greg muttered to himself, twisting his face into an expression of pleasant surprise. "Is it that time of year already?"

That explained Sherlock's sudden illness. The front door slammed shut down stairs.

"I knew this would happen!" Mycroft raved, climbing the stairs, tossing his coat and umbrella onto a nearby wing chair as he entered the room. "How is he? Is he alright? Let me see him." The British government knelt next to his little brother's head, shifted the younger man's eyelids to analyse his condition.

"My, if you just calm down for two seconds-"

He swiveled his head to glare at his husband. Gritting out his words as if they were grains of sand wedged in between his teeth, he growled. "I am the spitting image of calm, Gregory."

"-You would know that he is perfectly fine. It's his season." Blinking, Mycroft pressed his lips together, his nose scrunching up in irritation, looking much too like a shriveled up lemon. "What? No. Sherlock is much too young." Greg raised his eyebrows, wrists bending outward to place them on his hips, holding a rag. "You Holmeses amaze me sometimes. And not in a good way. You lot are-" Sherlock moaned, eyes flickering underneath his lids. Mycroft gently hushed him, laying a few pats on the younger man's chest. "Let's not forget that you are a Holmes as well, dearest."

Greg hummed a short note, ignoring his husband.

* * *

Lestrade amazed Sherlock sometimes. How he convinced his brother to let him return to living alone was a mystery he would never solve.

"Sherlock, dear, I'll be out for a pinch." Mrs. Hudson commented, placing a cup of tea in her Pseudo son's son's hands. "If you're peckish, there's some casserole in the fridge. Oh, I'm going to be late!" She pressed a kiss to his mop of curls. She dashed out the door, down the stairs, and grabbed her purse, scampering out into the busy London streets.

Sherlock listened to the London bustle as it passed his home. A loud knocking was heard. Sherlock descended the stairs, placing his mug on the kitchen table, pulling his blue robe tighter around himself. He knew it wasn't Mrs. Hudson.

The detective opened the door. He drank in the sight of the man, facts being processed quickly, storing them away neatly, with the startling slamming of file cabinet drawers: Irish accent. Trimmed black hair. Shorter than himself. Grey shirt. V-Neck. Low Jeans, showing his underwear. Gay. Tennis Shoes. Liar. Loves animals. Pretty eyes. "Hullo," The man greeted, grinning, hands in his pockets," I'm interested in renting 221C. Is Mrs..." The man glanced at his phone, brimming with notes and files, no doubt. "Hudson here?"

"Ah, no, she just stepped out. Come in."

The man stepped into the building, stretching out his hand. "My name is Richard. Richard Brooke."

Sherlock took the offered hand. "Sherlock Holmes." The curly haired man's brows furrowed. Human? His mind echoed, questioningly. He honestly couldn't tell. "If you don't mind, I can show you 221C." Richard's grin widened. "That would be wonderful!" Sherlock grabbed the keys and hastily opened the flat. He stepped back, holding the door open so the other man could enter. The detective followed him.

"This is perfect! I'll put in an offer as soon as Mrs. Hudson gets back. " The man said looking about the room. "When will she be back?"

"Three hours and 23 minutes." Richard didn't seem to be surprised by the calculation.

"Molly said you were a smart one."

"Molly? How do you know Molly?" Sherlock questioned, curious, realizing his state of underdress compared to the man across from him, his mind already piecing together the answer to his own question. "We work together at St. Bart's. Well, I work in IT. I go by Jim there, though, my mother's nickname for me." The man took a step closer to Sherlock, explaining. "You live up there." He commented, pointing above his head, looking to the ceiling. "In 221B, yeah?"

"Yes. I...Just moved in the other day."

Jim sauntered forward through the door, passing Sherlock. "Do you mind?" He gestured up the stairs. Sherlock shook his head. "No, go ahead." Sherlock followed the Irish man, who seemed to be enjoying his little adventure, up the stairs. He whistled, "Wowie, you sure like skulls, Sherlock."

"They seem to be the only ones with any amount of sense these days." Jim cackled at Sherlock's joke, plopping down onto the couch. He looked Sherlock up and down as if he were calculating a math equation. "If you don't mind me saying so, you seem to be a little young to be out of the nest." Sherlock blinked, pouring another cup of tea for his guest. "We're the same age." He replied, definitely, his mind muddled a bit by the large amount of cologne the man was wearing.

Taking the offered cup, Jim waved off his previous comment dismissively. "Really? How would you know that?" He smirked, taking a sip, teasingly, and continued speaking. "Thank you. Don't mind me. I chatter to myself all the time."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply when his phone dinged, rather loudly. "Excuse me." He entered his bedroom, closing the door behind him, stripping himself of his sleepwear.

 _So how are things?_ GL

Sherlock shot back a short message of _I would be fine if you didn't butt in every two minutes...But Thank you for asking._ SH

 _Oh, hush, you. It was just a question._ GL

Another text pinged into the conversation. A group chat, wonderful, Sherlock thought, rolling his eyes as he pulled on his trousers and buttoned his shirt.

 _Do you know who that man in your flat is?_ MH Sherlock knew Mycroft bugged his place.

 _Someone interesting._ SH

 _Besides, you're still our little baby boy. We're allowed to worry._ GL The detective-inspector inserted little kissing faces and hearts at the end of the text, commenting sarcastically.

Sherlock scrunched up his face and tossed his phone his bed. He exited his room, leaving his door wide open. Upon entering the room, Jim shot him a cheeky smile as he inhaled deeply, a gesture Sherlock was familiar with, but couldn't quite place. He felt as if it were a test of some sort, but the atmosphere of expectation was not flitting about the room as if it were a caged bird. Because of the relaxed mood, he ignored the twisting of his stomach as the other man watched him reenter the living room, his eyes almost startling with their vivid color and attention.


End file.
